


Mangled Remains of Who We Once Were

by papesdontsellthemselves



Category: Newsies (1992), Newsies - All Media Types, Newsies!: the Musical - Fierstein/Menken
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst, Depression, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Military, Nightmares, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Sexual Dysfunction, no actual smut tho, there's build up but it doesn't go anywhere
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-10
Updated: 2020-03-10
Packaged: 2021-03-01 03:29:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,076
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23088586
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/papesdontsellthemselves/pseuds/papesdontsellthemselves
Summary: Coming home is never easy.
Relationships: Albert DaSilva/Racetrack Higgins, Spot Conlon & Racetrack Higgins
Comments: 5
Kudos: 27





	Mangled Remains of Who We Once Were

**Author's Note:**

> Hey! So this is a fic I wrote a few months back for an angst off, which means- yeah. It's very angsty. But I tried to make it believable and not romanticized. I enjoyed delving into the characters, so if you made it this far, I hope you enjoy! Def beware the tags and warning below.
> 
> **warnings:** ptsd, nightmares, descriptions of injuries, alcoholism, Mild sexual content/dysfunction (this detail is a major plot point, but none of the scenes are graphic or go into too much detail, but still know it’s there), mentions of vomit, cheating

Race remembers being twelve and wanting to ride Albert’s scooter down the big hill in front of his house. They lived on sort of a pipestem at the time- six houses lining the sides of a large driveway type decline, ending in another small hill climbing to the last house in the mix. It was supposedly “private” and veered off of the main road, so few cars ventured down there. There were many times wherein he and Albert would revel in being able to lay in the middle of the pipestem and not have to worry about getting run over. Because if a car were coming, it came slowly and they’d have plenty of time to see it before it barreled over their wiry, prepubescent bodies.

Ever since Albert got the scooter for his birthday, the two of them had been riding it around the neighborhood unendingly. They took turns flying down the freshly paved streets of their little cookie cutter, suburban neighborhood- one boy riding it and the other running as fast as he could to keep up. 

The first time Race had ridden the scooter, he had been barefoot, and when the time came to break, he discovered that when pressed against the back wheel, the metal flap would burn hot. He shouted out and jerked his foot up, swerving sideways and tumbling into Old Man Joseph’s pristine front lawn. Albert had been laughing so hard, he was nearly pissing himself and Race, ever the indignant little shit had stomped home angrily for a spare pair of sandals. 

Albert had decided to tackle the big hill in their pipestem first, and in an attempt to emulate Race’s little disaster earlier, he’d thrown himself sideways onto their neighbor- Fred’s- lawn. But see, when you’re mentally prepared to do something, the outcome tends to be a little more successful. So, after tumbling a couple feet, giggling all the while, Albert had leapt back up and insisted that, _“Race you gotta try it! Jus’ throw yourself sideways and fly!”_

So, Race had. 

And Race fell. 

The wrong way.

If he thinks hard enough, Race can almost still feel the pavement as it scraped across his legs, instantly burning the skin there. He’d laid on the ground for a long time after the fall, staring up at the Summer sky and trying to find shapes in the clouds as voices shouted around him. He could feel blood dripping from his knee, but for some reason, that didn’t seem important. And then came the pain in his wrist.

He’d been in a cast for three weeks, and a brace for two more, and Albert kept joking that Race really shouldn’t have listened to his dumb suggestions in the first place. Race jokingly promised back that he wouldn’t.

Eight years later, Albert joined the Army. And Race joined, too.

-

Recovery isn’t linear.

That’s what the doctors have been telling Race since the moment he woke up in Landstuhl Regional Medical Center in Rheinland-Pfalz. 

It had been entirely disorienting waking up to a white, sterile room with several nurses gathered around him and a throbbing pain in his head. They were constantly asking him harried questions, to which he gave half-assed answers to. Most things they asked, he genuinely couldn’t answer.

Like, “are you aware of today’s date?” and horrifyingly enough, “what’s your mother’s name?”

He didn’t know. They didn’t like that.

He also felt like there was something he was forgetting to ask about, but he shrugged it off. If it were important, it’d come to him.

That was ten months ago.

Now, he’s sitting at a cafe somewhere on Dean Street, a vague headache throbbing around the crown of his head. Spot’s sitting in front of him, talking about something or other, and nursing a mocha. Race had been listening at first, but there’s only so long he can hear him go on about his shitty coworkers and asshat boss. He innately cares- that’s a given. But since coming home from that last tour, exactly what empathy feels like has left him. He knows how he should respond, he knows what he should be feeling and he tries to emulate it, he really does! The actual feelings, though, were left overseas in and amongst the blood and sand and sanity he left there as well.

A baby starts crying somewhere to his left and Race’s head snaps in that direction, the sudden wailing putting him on high alert. To his right, a man is yelling at someone on the phone. There are cars honking and revving, doors chiming and windows slamming and really, they’re all typical sounds of the City, but Race can’t help but catalogue each of them. Spot seems unbothered, his gaze staying fixated on Race’s face as he continues to gripe. He doesn’t seem to care about all the commotion happening around them. No one ever seems to. Race doesn’t get it. Don’t people want to know what’s happening around them? Don’t they want to know if something’s amiss?

“Race?”

Race snaps back into the moment, eyes finding Spot’s. He looks neutrally concerned, as if he were trying to mask how worried he really is. Race frowns. How long had he been zoning?

“Yeah?”

Spot raises his eyebrows, “You alright?”

“I’m good,” Race says, probably too quickly. He is good, though. Like, truly. Just a little on edge is all, but isn’t everyone?

Spot studies him, most likely debating whether it’s worth fighting right now or not. He seems to decide against it, “How’s Albert doing?”

Race winces internally, then feels immediately guilty. This subject’s almost worse.

He settles for picking up his americano and taking a sip. It’s cold now, “He’s fine. Had an appointment down at Walter Reed this past weekend, Finch dropped him back off last night. It went well, I think. His right eye’s doing a lot better. The doctors think he’ll get full function back, which is good.”

Those first two days in Landstuhl wherein Race didn’t know why the hell he was there were, ironically, the last time he’d ever felt peace. He woke up on the third day, with visions of humvees and old, misleading buildings giving way to vacated rooms and shouts of, “this is a trap, guys, turn back-” before the world exploded and Race was being pushed behind someone and that someone was Albert- oh god- _Albert._

Yeah, that hadn’t been a fun morning. 

The first thing he’d asked after emptying his stomach was, “Al- Dasilva- Uh, Sergeant Dasilva. Is he…?”

The nurse had grimaced, helping him back to the bed before answering in a sullen voice, “Sergeant Dasilva is alive, yes.”

The sheer relief that flooded Race’s system almost made him sick again, “Can I see him?”

Now, the nurse looked apprehensive and Race’s stomach sank, “His condition is very poor, Lieutenant. Your soldier suffered a great deal of external trauma, including extensive lacerations to his left calf and fractures in the femur. His left eye is completely gone and while his right eye is still intact, there are small grazes in his cornea. We think those will heal, but he might not bode well to visitors right now.”

Race blanched. Albert’s left eye was...gone? That...that didn’t seem right. No, Albert’s eyes were the prettiest part of him. That sort of rich, light brown, with just the smallest flecks of green and yellow that seemed to gleam in the sunlight or whenever he laughed. They were beautiful, too beautiful for anything to have happened to them. 

Something in his resolve seemed to settle there and Race felt numbness spread through his body, “He’ll bode well to me,” he said, looking at the nurse, “I want to see him. Let me see him.”

The nurse had just sighed and nodded.

It was only after Race had been in to see Albert (and nearly thrown up at the sight of the bandage that covered his left eye, masking the empty socket) that he started to remember more of the IED explosion. The moment they’d been thrown through the air, hitting the ground head first and instantly seeing black, then white, then red as blood seeped down from his hair into his eyes. Being carried down the steps of the building by Romeo and Specs. Elmer trying to treat his wounds, but Race fighting it, insisting that he, “needs to see Albert, fucking shit, is Albert- where’s Albert-” And finally spotting him on the ground, the sand around him matted with blood and his skin burnt and-

God, will Race ever stop throwing up?

After rinsing his mouth and splashing his face, Race had asked about the rest of his platoon.

They were all alive. Albert was the worst off. That only did so much to comfort him. 

“That’s good,” Spot says, bringing Race back to the present, “That’s really good.”

“Yeah..” Race finishes his americano. It’s bitter, but still better than the dirt they served in the sandbox. His phone starts ringing and Race fishes it out, glancing at the number, “Speak of the devil. Hang on, sorry.” Spot waves him off and Race picks up, “Al?”

“Race,” Albert sounds upset, “Where are you?”

Race bites back a sigh and answers patiently, “I went out to get coffee with Spot. I woke you up and told you before I left, remember?” It’s frustrating. _He’s_ the one with apparent brain damage and subsequent memory issues and yet it seems like Albert’s always the one forgetting shit.

There’s a pause on the other end, “Oh,” a breath, “Right.”

Race slumps in his chair, “Sorry, I’ll be more explicit next time.”

“Okay.”

“Are you alright?” Race asks carefully.

Another pause. Always so many pauses, “Yes.” It’s calculated and rehearsed and entirely fake.

Race drops his head, “I’ll be home in a little bit, okay?”

“Yeah, alright,” he sounds apathetic. Race can’t even be mad. He gets it.

“Alright,” Race says, already shoving his wallet in his back pocket, “I’ll see you soon. Love you.”

“Love you, too.”

Neither of them are technically lying, but there’s no doubt that their dynamic has changed since coming home. Before enlisting, they were relentless. Hopelessly in love and high off of it, taking any chance they had to show their devotion and care, stripping the other down with the force of it. While overseas, it was thrilling to keep their relationship hidden- stolen moments and secret kisses blind to the outside world. The only thing keeping them sane.

After, it seemed to be the only thing they knew and the one thing they were terrified to lose. But two fucked up men, both in mind and body, only work so well. Race wants to do it, though. He’s aching to make it work, even if his chest is in a constant state of heavy and broken, he can’t imagine life where Albert isn’t right next to him in bed. He doesn’t want to imagine that life. He wouldn’t be able to do it.

Race gives Spot an apologetic look, “I gotta run, man, I’m sorry.”

Spot waves him off, “No problem, go take care of your guy.”

“Will do,” Race mock salutes and hates himself for it.

He leaves the little cafe, shoving his hands in his pockets as he makes his way down the street. Everything’s fast moving and Race isn’t sure whether he’s thankful for that or not. On one hand, he can’t nearly keep track of everyone around him. On the other, he’s getting back to his and Albert’s shitty apartment on 14th Street in record time.

When he gets inside, he’s disappointed but not surprised to find Albert lounging on the couch, looking dazed with a bottle of whiskey and a glass on the coffee table in front of him. He doesn’t have his glass eye in, but that’s not unusual. After getting it, he’d worn it for maybe a week before claiming that it was almost worse, because, “people can tell something’s a little off, but they don’t know what it’s from at first glance, so they’re just kinda staring at you, trying to figure it out. If I just don’t have an eye at all, it’s obvious what’s wrong with me.”

Silver fucking linings.

He still wears it sometimes, on good days, ironically, but more often than not, it stays in his bedside table, gathering dust.

He takes a measured breath, bracing himself, “Were you drinking again?”

It’s been an on and off thing since they were teenagers- Albert’s alcoholism. Granted, it hadn’t been this glaring before their honorable discharges, but it had always been present. Race had looked the other way when he’d discovered Albert’s hidden flasks and hidden stash while they were stationed in Fallujah (which, really, he shouldn’t have. He was a CO after all, but the things he’d do for Albert were endless) but that didn’t stop the flare of concern when he realized that Albert hadn’t quit. The one time he brought it up, he’d received a world-record glare, a harsh, “fuck off, Higgins, worry about your other men,” and the silent treatment for a whopping 36 hours. That had been a fun couple of days.

“Only a glass,” Albert looks at him, a challenging glint in his eye.

Race sets his jaw, “It’s 11 am.”

“And?” Albert kicks up his feet, “I’m a grown man, I can make these decisions.”

“Aren’t you not supposed to mix alcohol and your new meds?”

Albert shrugs, “Who cares. I’m not dead, yet. Hell, the world seems to be trying to kill me, what’s a little cross fading? Least it makes me feel good.”

The headache that seems to constantly grip Race’s temple worsens and he pinches the bridge of his nose, “You’ve been doing alright without it recently,” he ventures, sitting next to Albert on the couch, softening “Did something happen this morning while I was gone?”

Albert’s quiet, his mask of indifference chipping away a little bit, but his stubbornness seems to win out, “Nothing new,” he says vaguely.

Race ducks his head, grimacing, “You can talk to me, you know. I want to help you.”

Albert wrinkles his nose and leans forward, pouring two fingers worth of whiskey into the glass and tossing it back, “What are you, my shrink?”

“No,” Race says, carefully, “But since you refuse to see one, even though the VA offers them with your benefits, I’m what you’ve got by way of a dumping ground. You can talk to me about shit, Al,” he reiterates, “I probably get it more than a shrink would anyway.”

For a moment, it seems like Albert’s going to speak, but Race is only mildly surprised when he opts to pick up the entire whiskey bottle and down a quarter of it instead. He watches in demulcent disgust and helplessness, resisting the urge to yank it out of his hands and throw it out the window into the crowded streets below. Brashness won’t get him anywhere with Albert.

“Talking, talking, talking,” Albert slurs, slamming the bottle down, “All you wanna do these days is talk, babe, can’t we do something else? Like we used to?” He leans in, messily kissing Race, a hand attempting to snake under his shirt. He tastes like a distillery and Race’s eyes water involuntarily. He pushes back, a hand pressing firmly against Albert’s chest.

Albert frowns, looking like he might cry, “Why don’t you ever wanna fuck anymore? I know I’m too fucking ugly now, you don’t gotta rub it in.”

Guilt and something like longing bubbles in Race’s stomach, turning his guts uncomfortably and making him feel vaguely nauseous. It’s true. They haven’t done much more than kiss since they moved back to Manhattan after their time in Fort Belvoir, but...but it just isn’t right. It doesn’t feel right anymore. Something big is missing now that Race can’t pinpoint, but feels the weight of every day. God knows he misses the days where they’d spend hours in bed together, learning each other’s bodies and minds and sharing love that was almost incomprehensible. Now, they can’t even have one fucking conversation without some land mine going off. Ha. Ironic.

The hollow chasm that’s been expanding in Race’s chest, pulling him deeper and further away from who he once was- who they once were- broadens almost impossibly farther. Race thinks if it gets any bigger, there won’t be anything left of him. He’ll just be a hole. A cavernous shell of a broken man. 

“It’s not that, Albert,” He says, sounding distant and tired even to his own ears, “You- you’re drunk right now. I’m not going to have sex with you while you’re drunk.”

Albert pouts, “But you never want to anymore.”

“And you’re never sober anymore,” Race snaps.

There’s a heavy silence and Race holds his breath, diverting his gaze to the couch. It’s beige and ugly. Race hates this couch.

“I’m sorry,” Albert whispers.

And here’s the guilt. Here’s the self-deprecation and impending breakdown. The routine of it all is exhausting, but isn’t it fitting? Routines everywhere. Even stateside. Even home. 

Race was looking forward to not having so many routines. Wishful thinking, it seems.

“I know I’m fucked up,” Albert’s voice is still slurring, but it’s choked now, “Believe me, I fucking know,” he grips Race’s forearm and Race looks up, seeing Albert’s imploring look. His eyes were always so expressive. Race guesses losing one doesn’t change that, “but it’s such a fucking nightmare in here,” he points an unsteady finger at his brain, “I don’t know what to do, anymore, Race. I’m so lost.”

He’s crying now and Race wants to join him. Carefully, he maneuvers Albert into his arms, holding him close despite the smell of alcohol and sweat. He strokes his hair out of his face, running his fingers down his scalp and gripping the back of his neck tightly. He lets him cry- lets him break- and bites his lip to stop himself from doing the same. Another routine.

“I know, baby,” He murmurs, pressing a kiss to the top of Albert’s hair, “I know it’s hard, but there are things out there to help you, _people_ who want to help you. You gotta let them.”

“I know,” Albert says, thickly, “I know.”

But he doesn’t, really, because on par with the course, that’s the end of the discussion.

XXX

That night, Race has a nightmare.

He wakes up, gasping as the smell of smoke and blood fade away. Screams are echoing in his head, making it pound more than usual. He’s not sure who’s screaming- all the screams sound the exact fucking same to him. A cacophony of agony, terror, and confusion, all melding together to create a raw, gut-wrenching noise. It could be him screaming, it could be Albert, it could be any one of his men. It could be all of them. Race never really tried to dissect that part of the memory. 

He realizes belatedly that he’s crying. Sobbing, really. Snot, tears, and sweat running down his face, arms crossed at his chest, clasping his biceps and squeezing hard. Everything’s loud and nothing makes sense.

“Race, look at me, hey, look at me, that’s it.”

His frantic gaze finds Albert’s in the dark, eye wide and fearful, but steady. He’s kneeling in between Race’s legs, grasping his right shoulder firmly. 

“That’s it,” He repeats, rubbing his thumb soothingly over Race’s collarbone, “Tell me where you are.”

Race sucks in a few, too-fast breaths, “I-I-”

“You’re in our room, Race,” Albert says, tone low and steady, “You’re in our room in Manhattan and you’re safe. Say it back to me.”

It takes a moment for Albert’s words to process, but once they do, Race’s frantic heartbeat is already slowing, “I’m in our room..”

“Yes.”

“In Manhattan.”

“That’s right.”

“And...I’m safe?”

“Yes,” Albert says, looking relieved as the last of Race’s tears dissipate, “Good job, say it one more time.”

“I’m in our room,” Race sounds more confident now, “In Manhattan. And I’m safe.”

“Yes, good, yes. You’re safe.”

A pause. A breath. 

“I’m sorry.”

There’s another squeeze to his shoulder, then suddenly, Race is being pulled into Albert’s chest.

“Don’t be, love.”

_Love_. It sounds familiar and yet so foreign nowadays coming from Albert. 

Race lets himself be held- lets himself be wrapped in Albert’s embrace for one goddamn moment, thankful for the absence of that awful, sour, alcoholic smell. For a moment, things feel okay.

It’s entirely fucked up.

XXX

Race had been told probably a thousand times since coming home that he’s lucky. Some variation of that notion is constantly being repeated to him- whether it be from Spot, or the nurses he still visits for his fucked up head, or the psychiatrist he sees for his Xanax prescriptions- he’s always being told it.

And really, he knows it’s true. He _is_ lucky. He got out. Alive. All of his men did and that’s a lot more than one usually can say in these scenarios.

So, why doesn’t he feel lucky? Why doesn’t he feel like he got out?

He brought it up once to his therapist: Dr. Larkin. She’s a stout lady, with dark skin, kind eyes, and a no-bullshit attitude. Race likes her- has since the moment she said that, “just because you come back in one piece, doesn’t mean all of you is put together, darling.”

Something about that statement clung to him, made him feel valid amongst his feelings in a way he never did with nurses or Albert or anyone else telling him he’s one of the lucky ones.

Sure, he might not be missing an eye, but he’s missing himself, isn’t he?

Anyway, he brought it up once to Dr. Larkin, who had fixed him with A Look and said, “you got blown up, Antonio. I wouldn’t call that lucky and anyone trying to tell you that you are is blind to human suffering.”

It had made Race momentarily feel better to have someone finally see him and his struggle. But then he’d left the cramped up office and re-entered the real world and suddenly he was back to having that bullshit spewed at him.

Which is what’s happening now.

“I’m depressed, Albert.” Race says, feeling a little desperate and out of depth. He hasn’t said that out loud yet, “I’m depressed and shit doesn’t function like it used to. It’s...it isn’t you, you know that.”

He and Albert are on the couch, half undressed and choking on the tension between them. They had tried again to do...something...anything like they used to. But two minutes into a haphazard hand job, Albert had stopped, scowling at Race’s...lack of performance. 

Albert searches his face and Race resists hiding behind his hands- running away. 

It’s quiet for awhile before Albert sighs, “I was jealous of you, you know,” he says, looking down at his hands, “You came back in one piece. You’re still intact. Those first few months, I _hated_ you for that. Hated that you seemed to get out untouched.”

That stings and Race’s chest burns. He swallows and looks down, mirroring Albert’s position. 

“But at this point…” Albert trails off, shaking his head, “It’s just sad, ya know? It’s sad to see you like this,” he gets up, pulling his shirt back on, “I’m gonna go shower.”

Race stays where he is on the couch, staring at the place Albert used to be. He wants to yell at him to stay. To understand. To not leave him right now, because who the fuck does that? 

But he doesn’t. Instead he bites his tongue like every god fucking time. 

Because Albert’s broken. And Race is less broken. At least, as far as anyone can see. 

XXX

The weekend comes around and Race is having a Bad Head Day. 

They don’t happen quite as often as they used to, meaning, his head isn’t in a constant state of excruciating _ow_ , but it’s still a common enough thing that he’s not all that surprised when he wakes up Saturday morning with a headache that seems to throb through his entire body.

He throws up, because of course he does.

Dr. Larkin had once called him a “pukey guy” after he’d finished emptying his stomach following a particularly tough session. She claimed that everyone handles things differently and his body just seems to take rejection to trauma physically. Race hadn’t necessarily cared at the time. He just knew he was fucked up.

Albert isn’t in bed, which is surprising, because he usually pushes staying in bed as long as possible. Knowing it’s going to hurt, but not really caring, Race reaches for his phone, squinting against the dim light to check the time. He hisses, his eyes throbbing as the digital numbers appear on the screen: 2:17 pm.

Race drops his phone and groans. He’s been asleep for 15 hours.

Absentmindedly, he sifts through his bedside drawer, pulling out his odd mix of pill bottles and blindly shaking a cocktail of both prescription and non-prescription pain relievers onto his palm. He throws the pills into his mouth, knowing that they shouldn’t be mixed but hoping that some of the pain will finally, _finally_ , go down. He thinks that maybe he’ll overdose, and then he thinks, _maybe that wouldn’t be so bad either._

He stands, aimlessly feeling his way along the wall to the bathroom and doesn’t bother turning on the light as he washes down the pills with some water from the sink. When he gets back to bed, he slumps face down into the pillows, praying listlessly that he can have some fucking peace.

The next time he wakes up, it’s dark outside, but his head feels significantly better (albeit groggy as hell and he’s a little cotton mouthed from the pill pile from hell), so he calls it a win. He stumbles to the bathroom, relieves himself, then moves onto the kitchen, where Albert is seated at the counter, absentmindedly scrolling through his phone and nursing a shallow glass of _something._

“Hey,” Race’s voice sounds rough and he clears his throat.

Albert looks up and Race notes that his eyes are focused. So, not drunk yet.

“Hey, you okay?”

“Yeah,” Race yawns, sitting across from him, “Head fucked me in the ass today.”

“Figured as much,” Albert frowns, “You feel better now?”

“Yeah, thank god,” Race rubs his face, yawning again as he glances around the apartment. Suddenly, he feels too awake and entirely cooped up, “I’m gonna go for a quick run, that okay?”

“Mhm,” Albert’s looking back down at his phone, “Can you pick up some food on the way home?”

“Sure, whatcha feeling?”

“Thai?”

“You got it.”

Running was something Race missed while in recovery. The rhythmic sound of his sneakers pounding against pavement a calming presence in the background of his racing thoughts. If it weren’t for track in ninth grade, he wouldn’t even have the nickname that had since blurred the lines of his identity. Antonio was a soldier. A serious lieutenant who didn’t take bullshit from his men; a rule maker as well as follower. Race was a lighthearted kid with a charming smile and a few tricks up his sleeve that only Albert ever seemed to notice. 

Albert, who he’d known since fourth grade. Albert, who, despite all that’s changed in the past ten months, he’d trust with his life. Albert, who can read him like a book; always tuned into exactly what he’s thinking. Albert, who is smart and calculating and a damn good soldier and who nearly gave his life for him, but it’s-- 

Just after 0900 pm and Race and Albert are sitting on their fire escape, watching the city start to come alive in the darkness, lights reflecting against the shadowy sky. Race is going to miss this view- the reassuring lack of routine in the city a drastic contrast to the methodical cycle of military life. They ship out for their second tour tomorrow. It’s a fourteen hour flight to Fallujah, Iraq and Race can’t shake the nervous buzz that’s been humming under his skin for the past few days. He can’t help it. It always feels like he’s on a timer- a countdown to his doom.

Albert knocks their shoulders together, drawing Race’s attention to the smile on his face. It would be teasing if his eyes weren’t so tight with worry. Race lets himself get lost in his eyes for a moment, relishing the way the city lights gleam off of them, showcasing their beauty- their ability to be eloquent with not so many words.

“You nervous?” He asks, not shifting away from where their shoulders are still touching.

They’ve been doing that a lot lately. Touching.

Not that they haven’t always been tactile, but it’s taken a new connotation since their last tour. Something more meaningful, something profound. Race tries not to think too deeply about it. If he does, he’ll fall into a never ending spiral of overthinking his completely platonic feelings towards Albert. At least, he’s been trying to convince himself for the last six years that they’re platonic. 

It’s messy.

Race looks down at his dangling legs, kicking them out a little and watching cars move like ants beneath his socks.

“A little,” He admits, “yeah.”

“Me too,” Albert says, leaning his head onto Race’s shoulder. Race automatically rests his cheek against the top of Albert’s head, breathing in the scent of the cocoa butter shampoo Albert’s always liked to use.

“It just…” Race lets his eyes wander over the skyline, thinking, “It always feels so suffocating. Once we’re there, it’s just routine. Normal, kinda. But waiting to get there? Knowing what to expect from base, but at the same time not having a clue if we’ll come home? It’s, I dunno, it’s hard.”

“Yeah, but at least we’ll have each other there,” Race looks down to see Albert looking up at him, “That’s like a little bit of home, right?”

“Right,” Race breathes. Their gazes linger probably too long and then Albert’s shifting up towards Race and Race is leaning down and- “A little bit of home...”

-And they’re kissing. It’s somehow exactly and nothing like what Race expected. Albert’s lips are just as soft and giving as he’d imagined, but there aren’t any sparks or fireworks. Just a rush of warmth, spreading from his chest to his toes, making his held feel light and his heart feel lighter. It feels right, like they’re two pieces of a puzzle that have been expertly fixed to one another, completing a larger, more spectacular picture.

They break apart, smiling and it’s--

A given, because from the day that they met, they knew that they’d do whatever it takes to keep the other safe. And that’s always meant sacrifice. Body or mind, it doesn’t matter- both, in their case. 

He jogs past their favorite thai place. It’s a cozy little joint with rust red walls and green ceilings, boasting some of the best pad thai in the area. They’d discovered it one bitter, winter day back in junior year. When things were simpler. When they were fuller beings, with greater ambitions, brighter futures and hearts that didn’t shatter at the lack of light in the other’s eyes- well, eye in Albert’s case. 

Race shakes away that thought, hoping that the sudden weight on his chest goes with it. 

It doesn’t. 

The thai place is crowded (which, not Race’s scene anymore, thanks. Too many damn people. He can’t keep track of them all), so Race calls in his and Albert’s order and takes another lap around the block. 

When he gets home, Albert’s in the shower, so Race parks himself on the couch and pulls out his food, cracking open the lid and switching whatever show Albert had been watching to Animal Planet.

A few episodes go by and Race can hear Albert finish up in the bathroom, but it all blends together. Since coming home, time has seemed to go backwards, slipping from his unsteady grasp and drifting farther and farther away from him. It’s unsettling in the way it’s unattainable. You can’t get back time. 

You can’t get back a lot, Race is coming to realize.

“Is that tofu?”

Race glances up from his takeout container to where Albert is peering at him, left eye unwavering. His hair is still wet, the dark red strands of it tucked behind his ears and dripping onto the collar of his sweater. He’s inherently soft, but harsh all at once. The freckles that dotted his face and forearms for so many months in the desert finally fading back into his pale complexion. Race almost wants to believe he’s starting to look like his old self, but he knows that’s not true. He looks bothered, but then again, he always looks bothered these days. It makes something in Race’s chest tighten and he makes himself look back down at his food. 

“Yeah.” 

He can still feel Albert’s gaze on him and the confusion is palpable when he says--

“But you hate tofu. You’ve always hated tofu.”

Race shrugs, diverting, and shoves another spoonful in his mouth, “People change.”

Albert hums. That sheer statement alone is all too real between the two of them. And in truth, Race just doesn’t have the heart to tell Albert that he can’t eat meat anymore, because it reminds him too much of Albert’s charred body and bloody face, crying out, “My eyes hurt. Why do my eyes hurt? Why can’t I see?” 

He blanches and suddenly his food doesn’t seem so appetizing anymore. He still feels Albert watching him as he gags a little and places his food on the coffee table. 

“Not a good batch?” Albert asks after a moment, nodding pointedly to the food.

Race takes a moment to breathe, “Something like that.”

Time must slip away from Race again, because he blinks and Albert is next to him on the couch, halfway through his own takeout container and nursing a beer. There’s another beer sitting open on the coffee table and Race hums gratefully, picking it up and taking a swig. A doctor told him once that while his brain is healing, he should really refrain from alcohol, and generally, he’s been good about it. But situationally, he allows himself a bit. Makes him feel a bit looser, like his old self. 

As he steadily drains the bottle, feeling warmer and fuller than he has in a while, he can feel his inhibitions leaving him and suddenly, he and Albert are making out.

Race doesn’t remember initiating the gesture, but for once, it doesn’t feel tainted by Albert’s drunkenness. They’re both tipsy and touch starved. It’s an equal act of desperation.

Albert moves to straddle Race’s lap, not breaking their kiss as he reaches up to grip the back of Race’s neck with one hand and cradle his jaw with the other. He grinds down and Race lets out a hum, trying to relax into the moment. Albert grinds down harder and Race can feel him, hard against his leg, and he wants to be there, too. He wants to feel himself give in and let go and enjoy Albert’s body and the act of making love like he used to. 

But, like routine (because everything comes back to routines), ten minutes later, Albert is climbing off of him.

Race stares at his lap, a wave of self loathing crashing over him, making him feel dizzy and ashamed. He hates that he can’t do the things he enjoys anymore. He hates that his body and mind seem to be on two different tracks of logic and lost emotions- one half of his brain muddling through the present and the other half still overseas, vigilant and wary.

Albert lets out a measured breath, stands, and goes to the kitchen. When he comes back, he’s holding a glass of rum, sipping with a shaky hand.

Race doesn’t even have it in him to be mad.

He sighs, “I’m sorry.”

Albert swallows, sounding wrecked, “I am too.”

XXX

“Viagra?”

Hannah- Race’s psychiatrist down at the VA- raises her eyebrows, looking surprised and mildly concerned. Normally, Race would probably be feeling some level of embarrassment by now, but in all honesty, he’s just tired.

Tired of fighting with Albert, tired of fighting his body, tired, tired, tired.

...Tired of letting Albert down.

“Yeah,” He sounds dull, even to his own ears, “Can you get me some?”

Hannah sighs through her nose, shifting aside some papers and leaning forward on her elbows. She studies Race, her gaze scrutinizing, but not overly judgemental. 

“I can,” She says, not wavering her stare, “But answer me this first. Did something trigger this sudden urgency?”

Race diverts his gaze, “Ain’t it pretty self explanatory?” he snaps, “Do you want me to, like, say it? ‘Cause I can fucking say it.”

Hannah’s mouth quirks down and she chastises lightly, “Antonio.”

“I’m sorry,” Race mumbles, feeling guilty. She wasn’t trying to shame him, she’s just doing her job.

She waves a hand, “No harm,” sitting back in her seat, she backtracks, “What I mean to ask is: do you want this sort of...assistance...for your own benefit? Or someone else’s?”

Race flicks his eyes towards her, then back towards the ugly office carpet. It’s a fair question, and it isn’t like Race hasn’t talked to Hannah about Albert before, so she knows the basic run-down of their fucked up relationship (even though she’s not his therapist, she listens well and sometimes she does a little bit of a better job than Medda in deflecting Race’s bullshit. It’s a skill). But even he hasn’t thought that far ahead. Sure, he’s frustrated that his body doesn’t seem to want to operate on any typical level anymore, but honestly? If he never had sex again, that would be fine...except it wouldn’t.

Because then he’d have to deal with Albert’s wounded expression, boring into his own. The one clue that he misses the old days just as much as Race does. And if there’s one thing Race despises more than anything- one thing that will, without fail, send him on a spiral of self hatred- it’s hurting Albert.

So, maybe his own desires aren’t the main drive in this decision, but it counts for something that he’s technically trying to better his situation, right? Prevent himself from falling into an even lower pit of deep rooted self loathing? No, no, he _is_ doing this for himself, even if it doesn’t seem that way on the surface.

He shrugs, “Multiple benefits, I guess,” he says in lieu of repeating his entire thought process, “Including my own.”

Race looks at Hannah now and they hold eye contact for a tense few seconds before she sighs again, “Alright,” she concedes, pulling out a slip of paper and scribbling some information onto it. She hands it over to him, “Take that to the pharmacy downstairs, you know the drill.”

Race takes the slip from her, smiling dryly, “Thanks, Hannah, I’ll see you soon.”

She smiles back, looking just as weary as he feels, “Take care, Antonio.”

“I always do.”

XXX

Race picks up some pizza on the way home, feeling tentatively optimistic about his prospective evening with Albert. The Viagra is tucked safely in his jacket pocket, wrapped inconspicuously in a brown paper bag, an invigorating weight against his side. He feels oddly giddy, excited in a way he hasn’t been in almost a year now. It’s...nice, he thinks, to feel something other than numb resignation. And the thought of Albert appraising him with something other than bitter resentment or dull-eyed sorrow is all the more incentive. 

When he gets back to the apartment, Albert isn’t home, so Race sticks the pizza boxes in the oven to keep them warm and sheds off his jacket. He takes the Viagra out and has half a thought to try it out- see how well it works- but scraps that idea quickly in favor of tossing it behind the mirror in the bathroom. If tonight goes as he hopes it will, he’ll have a chance to crack it open later.

He putzes around for a bit, cleaning up random spots in the house and humming along to whatever the hell is on the radio. It’s been awhile since he’s had this sort of energy and doesn’t quite know what to do with it. In the end, he finds himself in front of the TV, bouncing his knee incessantly as The Office plays through a few episodes. 

It’s nearly 11:00 when Albert finally comes home. Race had been near-dozing on the couch, but as soon as he hears the apartment door open, he’s sitting up, nervous energy back in full swing.

“Hey,” he says, standing to meet Albert at the door, “I got us some pizza if you’re interested, even got you your pineapple abomination--are you okay?”

He frowns, taking in Albert’s worn appearance. His movements are slow and methodical, fluid, but stilted as he takes off his hat and scarf and hangs them next to Race’s jacket. Right eye downcast, he has yet to make eye contact with Race, but there are noticeable circles under his eyes and-- wait a minute, is that-- is that a _hickey_ on his neck?

Race straightens, taking a minute step back as a rush of cold apprehension runs down his back. 

Albert looks up at him and despite his shit appearance, his gaze is steady- open, “I’m going to be honest here,” he starts slowly and Race wants to shove a hand over his mouth, stop him from saying what he knows is coming, because maybe if he doesn’t say it, they can pretend that it didn’t happen and pretend that things could still be normal and-- “I slept with Mush this afternoon--”

Race blanks out a little. His vision looks like it’s swimming, but he knows there aren’t tears in his eyes--

“--and I feel awful about it now, but I was just so low, Race and--”

\--His heart’s pounding in his chest and his emotions are fighting each other, in a disagreement over which to feel the strongest. Betrayal? Longing? Anger? Love?

His chest hurts--

“--But I hated it, he wasn’t good, ‘cause he wasn’t you and I’m sorry. This has shown me that you’re it for me, Race and--”

“Stop,” Race says, sounding detached. He’s not even sure if he really speaks, but he continues anyway, “Stop, Albert. You don’t get to say that now.”

There’s a lump in his throat, thick and unmoving, and he’s not sure whether to feel nauseous over its presence or thankful that he’s not openly sobbing like some part of him wants to.

How could Albert? How--

“Couldn’t you have just waited?” Race asks, legs moving on autopilot...somewhere, he’s not sure where-- oh, the bedroom, “I’ve spent these past, oh I don’t know, eleven months waiting for you. Staying with you. Trying to be what you need and not asking much more in return ‘cause god knows I’ve got it better than you right now, so what fucking right did I have to ask anything of you, but you--” he scoffs, shaking his head and crossing to their walk-in closet. He can feel Albert standing somewhere behind him in the room. It doesn’t matter. He grabs a duffel, “You couldn’t have just done this for me? Look, I’m sorry we don’t have sex these days. I’m sorry I can’t do that anymore, I’ve told you it isn’t you. I know it’s me that’s fucked up. But,” He’s shaking- vibrating, really. He knows his words don’t make any sense, but--but-- “But you couldn’t have waited?” His voice finally breaks when he says, “I couldn’t be enough on my own?”

He finally looks at Albert then and is angry to see tears in the other man’s eyes. What fucking right does _he_ have to be upset right now? Race wants to call him out. He wants to yell, scream, make Albert feel an ounce of the acrid misery that’s somehow taking hold of his entire being.

Instead, still moving on autopilot, Race starts packing. He haphazardly opens their dresser, rooting through the drawers (because they don’t have designated sides or anything, ‘cause they share clothes, ‘cause they’ve always been like that--Christ) and throwing random t-shirts and jeans and sweaters and socks into the bag. He leaves Albert’s favorite pair of boxers, because he’s decent like that.

“What are you doing?” Albert sounds panicked and Race doesn’t care.

“Packing.” he says, hating the way his voice shakes.

“What?” Albert is closer to him now, but Race steps around him, into the bathroom. He starts packing his toiletries, “Why?”

Race keeps moving, because he has to. If he looks at Albert right now- really looks at him- he’s going to give in and he can’t. Not this time.

He stops next by his bedside table and pulls out his frankly upsetting amount of medicine, “I’m leaving, Al.” 

The Viagra comes out next and he takes the little bottle out of the paper bag with a trembling hand. He tosses it at Albert, who catches it and looks down at the label with a frown. Realization dawns on his face and the crease between his brows crumbles further.

“Race--”

“No,” Race says, “No, I don’t--no. You can’t talk. You don’t get to,” he grips the handles of his duffel tight enough for his knuckles to hurt, “I wanted this to work,” he bites, gesturing towards the bottle in Albert’s hands, “I really did. And god knows, I love you so fucking much. Even still, I love you so much right now and I don’t think that’s ever fucking going away, but I can’t stay here if you can’t try for me. We can’t work.”

He storms past Albert, picking up a few pairs of shoes from the hallway. Kitchen-- kitchen next. Favorite cookbook, okay, got it. Shit, don’t forget the sweater Ma knit last Winter--

“Race,” Albert sounds near frantic as Race heads towards the door, “Race, wait--”

Race freezes, clenching his jaw and watching as Albert rushes in front of him, reaching up to cup his jaw, “I’m so so sorry. Stay, please. I promise I’ll get help, _we_ can get help. Couples therapy or whatever the shit-- just, please. Please don’t leave me right now.”

He’s crying, but Race finds that he feels oddly numb when he reaches up to remove Albert’s hands from his face, “I’m not staying,” he says firmly, “You lost that privilege the second you let Mush fucking Meyers fuck you.”

Albert opens his mouth to say something, but Race holds up a hand, “You should get help, though. God knows that’s overdue. And maybe once you’ve waded through your shit, I’ll answer a phone call or whatever the fuck. But until then, I need to go, Albert.”

Albert lets him pass, watching as Race shoulders his duffel and toes on his shoes. 

Race bites his lip, hesitating at the door, “I love you, Albert. I love you so much and- god, I want to see you get better. _I_ want to get better... I-I’m sorry we couldn’t be enough.”

He closes the door behind him, hearing Albert’s sobs through the heavy wood. Steeling himself, he walks down the stairs and out of the complex, plowing on dazedly until he reaches a little bodega. He’s going to need to figure out a next move- form an operation. Maybe he’ll go to Spot’s, or possibly crash over at Crutchie’s for the night. But everything seems to blend into a jumble of detached grief as he locks himself in the shitty bathroom of the bodega, dropping his duffel and sinking to the floor.

It hits him all at once, the sheer agony fracturing something in his chest and spreading to the rest of his body, engulfing him in pain he’s never felt before. He doesn’t even think he felt this damn broken when he was lying, literally falling apart, in the desert sand.

But that makes sense, because then, he still had Albert on his side. He still had the best thing in his life there to hold him above water- remind him to keep swimming.

And he lost that, too.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading, chiefs!


End file.
